Death of a Cure

by Steven H Jackson

  Hailing our second cab of the day was easy. Without any hesitation, I directed him to a dress shop further south on Park Avenue. Marilena was taken aback. From the name of the store, could it be that I had just given directions to a ladies boutique?

  “Thomas, where are we going?” she inquired, looking a little bewildered.

  “To buy you a dress — two dresses. We’ll start at this shop, and if we don’t see anything we like, I know of several others.” I answered as if this were a question posed to me each and every day.

  “Do you shop for dresses often?”

  “Not often,” I shrugged. “It comes up from time to time.”

  She looked at me, her expression mildly perplexed before continuing with, “So, tell me about this shop.”

  “I think you will find the selection sophisticated yet cognizant of current fashions in a subtle way,” I answered as seriously as if she had asked for a surgical protocol. Her mouth fell open. This was going to be entertaining. I was, however, hoping that either the sales staff had turned over since my last visit and did not begin with “where’s your girlfriend?” or that they were cool enough to help me out, taking their cues from the manager that I knew.

  Playing along, while intrigued and entertained, Marilena let me take charge. She returned the faux-seriousness and said, “Well then, I shall not worry as I am in the hands of a professional.”

  Unlike most men, and in spite of my hunting-lodge lifestyle, I have learned to appreciate what comes your way when you help a lady pick out an outfit. It wasn’t always like this because like most men, I can be dumb as a box of rocks — until someone hits me with one. My first couple of times, when forced into a lady’s clothing store, I will admit that my reaction was just like all of my Neanderthal friends. Sit in the designated, uncomfortable chair outside of the dressing room, stare at the wall, make forced comments that each dress or whatever looked great and that “this is the one” while making repeated, distressed looks at my watch like we were about to miss live coverage of a major meteor impact that would end all life on Earth. And, like every other guy who displayed this sophomoric behavior, it got me nowhere.

  I am, if nothing else, willing to reassess tactics in the face of abject and complete failure — especially failure that did not enamor me to an attractive lady. So, I did some research and made some allies with a couple of understanding store managers. The shop we were headed to was the one where I thought we would have the most success. The store was sophisticated in both the clothing offered and the customer service. In other words, they put on a real show. Most importantly, the manager had become a friend. At first I thought she was solely motivated by adding a wealthy client who didn’t mind dropping some significant bucks on a steady procession of new girlfriends’ dresses. In later conversations, she corrected my ignorant assumption. She was actually touched, in some strange female way that I will never understand, by the fact that a rough hewn, though well-off heterosexual, was sincere about picking out girl clothes. She was New York tough, but she melted over this. It seemed that I was fairly unique. She wanted me to talk to her husband. Could I run a class for the husbands and boyfriends of all of her customers? Her assumption was as wrong as mine had been as my motives were less than pure. The fact was that you could get a lot of mileage out of this. Today my goal was not sex but rather having some fun with a friend who needed a distraction. As a bonus, I got to surprise Marilena once again about her friend the Marine, whom she had completely figured out. I’m not sure why, but I liked it.

  I escorted my clothes-shopping date from the cab to the store in gentlemanly fashion. I had called Catherine, the manager, after breakfast to alert her to our upcoming visit. She saw us through the glass and hurried over to meet us coming through the door, cutting off the junior members of the staff who would normally have pulled this duty. Her greeting made us both feel like long, lost friends.

  “Tom, it’s so good to see you again,” she said.

  After making introductions, Marilena asked, “You two know each other?”

  Catherine answered, “Yes. Tom is a valued client who has not been in to see us in way too long.”

  Very smooth, however, Marilena looked at me like she was trying to decide if Catherine was covering for me about the amount of time that had passed since my last visit. I could tell that she really didn’t know. Nice.

  “Tom tells me that you need an evening gown and a replacement cocktail dress for one that somehow was destroyed. I can’t wait to hear how that happened. I’ll bet he had something to do with it,” Catherine said. Both ladies laughed; bonding had begun.

  Catherine sized Marilena up and presented her with several dresses that met with enthusiastic approval. She summoned help, and we were ushered into a large alcove that was immediately closed off by a heavy curtain and a little velvet rope. Marilena was the center of attention as doting females directed by their mentor delivered gown after gown for consideration. Champagne arrived with fresh strawberries, choices were made about which dress to try on. Womanly happiness flowed in abundance.

  I stood away from the activity but purposefully did not sit down. I struck a contemplative pose, one hand stroking my chin while looking at the various garments. Catherine winked at me when one particular dress was produced, spurring me into further involvement. I provided positive comments about that one and even suggested that we start with a size 4. Marilena looked at me completely surprised. Before she could comment, I moved over to a wall that I knew from a previous visit contained a sliding screen that I started to pull out. This partition could be used to provide privacy for the lady trying on clothes. Marilena watched this, and her eyes opened even wider. Catherine turned away before her knowing smile could be seen.

  Getting back in the game by derailing my little charade, Marilena said, “Thomas, is that necessary?”

  I should have called her bluff. She was definitely bluffing. I’m sure it was a bluff. Yeah, it had to be. Well, I think it was a bluff. Oh, boy.

  A STRANGER IN

  A STRANGE LAND

  We left the store amid a flurry of “goodbyes” and “comebacks” — Marilena and Catherine friends for life. All in all, it had gone well. Marilena had enjoyed a very pleasant time as the center of attention, and Catherine had enjoyed a very pleasant time as the center of a flow of money from me to her. A win-win for everyone important to the process. Other than funding, my importance was questionable. And even though I did enjoy seeing Marilena’s reactions as she discovered that she still had a lot to learn about me, it had been a dangerous game. All I had wanted to do was to tease her a little while distracting her with girl clothes acquisition. She almost managed to use my ploy to up the ante in our relationship. I should have known better. When it came to this man-woman relationship game, whether you are trying to make a relationship or, in my case, prevent one, going up against a pro is unwise.

  As it was, she seemed happy in the cab and back at the condo unwrapping boxes and hanging up new clothing treasures. We had somehow purchased more than two dresses, and I was pressed into the receiving end of another fashion show and enthusiastically thanked once more — this time I got a kiss. At the store, she had looked amazing in almost everything she had tried on. In the end, it was the black number that I had pointed out with Catherine’s subtle direction that had been selected for this evening’s event. I won’t try to describe it in much detail as even though I have been trained a little by Catherine and her peers on girl clothes psychology, I’m still basically lost when it comes to the correct clothing construction terminology. Suffice it to say that it was floor length with lace in the right places and it was sheer, very sheer, in the right places accenting some amazing curves and flawless skin. There wasn’t a lot of it up top, with two very slight straps defying the physical laws that govern the whole universe by holding the whole thing up. The other women at the event tonight were going to just hate her.

  She turned her attention to me and to what I was going to wear this
evening, a small but definite amount of concern in her voice. My plan had been to put on a dress uniform that I kept at Ron’s. You can never go wrong with dress blues. This had been beaten into me starting as a kid in military school and from then on in one billet after another as an officer and a pretend gentleman. Also, hiding behind a uniform is always a safe place in uncomfortable surroundings. I was taking it out of the closet when she walked into my room as if letting me select suitable attire was a very risky proposition. She stepped up to the open closet and planted herself, my new clothing warden.

  “You’re wearing your uniform?” she asked in surprise.

  “Not just any uniform. This is a top-of-the-line, military dress uniform, designed by high-paid government clothing consultants and approved by the United States Marine Corps with the advice and consent of multiple congressional subcommittees. It is suitable for all classy occasions, both foreign and domestic.” I responded with strong finality — case closed.

  She had completely ignored me, had not heard a single word. My well-crafted discourse guaranteed to deflect any question about what I was going to wear unheard, a waste of breath.

  “What is this?” she asked reaching into the closet and pulling on the sleeve of the almost never worn tux — a tux that I had tried hard to forget.

  “Haven’t worn that in years. I’m sure it doesn’t fit anymore.”

  “Try it on.” Her voice carried more command than request.

  “I’m really not a tuxedo guy. It was Ron’s idea for me to have one. I think he got a two-for-one deal. He needed to wear a tux a lot. But like I said, it’s been so long that I’m sure it doesn’t fit.” I was dancing.

  “Try this on, please,” she said again as if for the first time, no impatience in her words, certain that her request would be accommodated.

  She pulled the hanger out and started to pull apart all the dumb little pieces and parts that make up a tuxedo. Tuxedo components were raining on the bed like D-Day paratroopers at Normandy. Eventually, she got down to the pants.

  “Well, go on,” she said. She made no signs of moving.

  I was seriously hoping that somehow it had changed and wouldn’t fit. The problem was that Ron had bought it for an event we had attended just two years ago, I had agonized through the alteration process, and I had not changed in size since then. She still wasn’t moving. I unbuckled, dropped my trousers, and stepped into the lower half of the tux. After I got started struggling into the damn thing, she pretended to ignore me, fiddled around with the other tuxedo pieces while I was getting zipped up and somehow managed to get my uniform back into the closet. Now the case was closed.

  Handing me the outer shell of the upper-half, she instructed, “Now the jacket.”

  I put it on. She smoothed the fabric down my shoulders, and it too fit perfectly. There was no hiding. I made one last try.

  “What’s wrong with my dress blues? Goes with my haircut.”

  “Nothing, if this were a military function. This is a society event. There is also an operational issue.”

  “And that is?” I inquired suspiciously.

  “We need to learn more about these people. You need to fit in. In your uniform, you are not as approachable.”

  Maybe she had a point. I hadn’t put up much of a fight. I never could with her. My look said that I acquiesced.

  “Besides,” she continued, springing the trap now that I had given in. “I want to have our picture taken together, I want to dance with you, and I want to be seen with an appropriate escort in my new gown, and that means you in a tuxedo, Buster.”

  Uh, what was that? Did she just call me Buster? Tuxedo Tommy, I thought. A stranger headed to a strange land, his date way ahead of him.

  *

  As expected, our arrival at the building lobby caused considerable commotion. The doormen, led by Caporegime Antonio himself, tripped over each other in their race to offer any doorman-type assistance to the beautiful Signora. I was physically moved aside so that she might get a professional escort front, back, left, and right all the way to Ricardo’s limo. I think that if she had asked, they would have climbed in and provided a moving defensive perimeter throughout the entire evening, leaving the building to look after itself. For that matter, leaving me to look after myself as well. Antonio gave a knowing look to Ricardo that I am sure conveyed, “Do what you can — she only has him.” I got a look that reminded me of the one I received from the father of my first date as we left her home so many years ago. Nothing had changed.

  The Plaza was at the southeast corner of Central Park at 59th and Fifth. This would have been a walk for me, but the flimsy, yet incredibly expensive shoe selection called for wheeled transport. It amazes me that the more expensive a woman’s shoe, the less utilitarian it is. There is no logic in female shoe-ware. We started off in limo-luxury for our short ride to the Plaza. Along the way, Ricardo maintained a nonstop lecture about the dangers of the city, having heard about last night’s escapade. He wanted me to know, just about making me repeat the fact, that he was available at a moment’s notice and would drop any other client for us. Not calling him was inexcusable. Getting a little tired of having my shining armor questioned as being a little tarnished, I decided it was time to poke back a little.

  “You know, Ricardo, I have heard that those horse-drawn carriage rides around the park are a lot of fun. I think that after the event at the Plaza ends tonight, I will hire one to take us back, maybe up the middle of 5th Avenue and then across one of those park trails by the lake.”

  I immediately got an elbow in the ribs from my date knowing that I was just pulling his chain. It soon, however, became very apparent that Ricardo didn’t know I was kidding. He abruptly stopped the limo — so much for the egg — turned back to me and said with tremendous agitation, “Please, Colonel, do not speak of this! Do not even think it! Those buggy contraptions are a death trap! A death trap I tell you! No protection at all for the lady! I will stay at the Plaza all evening so you will not have to wait a second. Please! Please do not use a horse-buggy!” I got the elbow again, this time with a glare and a small shake of the head.

  “OK, OK, we will have you take us back. But you don’t need to hang around all night. I’ll call you twenty minutes before we need to leave.”

  “Ricardo, I think that we will hire you for the entire evening just in case I do not feel well and need to return unexpectedly,” Marilena stated matter-of-factly, but with a smile.

  I need to either carry more cash or stop playing with the pros. Fortunately, we moved on and quickly arrived at the Plaza before I could get into more trouble, cartilaginous, or financial.

  We had arrived thirty minutes early by design. I knew the layout of the hotel and wanted to take advantage of the lobby bar so we could see the guests as they arrived. Ricardo helped us, I mean helped Marilena, out of the limo, and off we went without the benefit of Mafiosi protection for the first time this evening. Although I would bet that Antonio had called the Plaza and had us under the protection of another doorman syndicate as a professional courtesy, one family to another.

  Up a short flight to the second floor, we stepped into a recessed, two-story bar area called the Rose Club. I steered us to a table that would be unnoticed from the foyer but offered a good view down at people coming in from the 5th Avenue entrance. We ordered drinks and settled in.

  “Recon, Mr. Marine?” she asked, noticing my careful table selection.

  “Stakeout, Federal Lady Police Person,” I answered.

  Along with those checking in, a steady stream of society partygoers mixed in with the flow, coming through the front door. You could separate them from the checkin crowd due to the women in colorful gowns and their penguin escorts. Then I remembered. God, I was a penguin, too.

  While we waited and watched, Marilena filled me in on some of the research she had done on the CID Society before leaving Washington. Having the resources of the FBI made her more successful than I had been poking around the Internet.
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  “Although I know that good comes out of the work of the VHAs, and I am in no way trying to belittle your brother’s work, the more I learn about these chronic disease advocacy groups, the less likely I am to contribute to one,” she began.

  “That’s not completely surprising,” I responded. “Ron was frustrated about his shop and told me so on several occasions.”

  “I asked our NFP division about the CID Society in particular and received some disturbing information from a senior agent whom I think highly of,” she said carefully.

  “What is the NFP division?” I asked, fearing that I already knew the answer.

  “We have a small group that deals discretely with issues involving not-for-profits,” she answered.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. They are less discrete when the NFP is a blatant sham, basically stealing from generous and well-meaning donors. They try to be more sensitive when the NFP is legitimate, and the potentially guilty parties are a small subset of the larger organization. The sad part is that more often than you would think, legitimate NFPs have some people in positions of responsibility who are plain and simply criminals. White-collar criminals, but criminals all the same.”

  “You said potentially guilty parties? As in plural?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “The bureau’s involvement is because the crimes perpetrated in these NFPs are organized and cross state lines.”

  “What did you learn about the CID Society?” I was almost afraid to ask.

  “There have been rumors and two undercover investigations. You need to keep that last part to yourself. The investigations are ongoing and involve violations of charity fund accounting.”